It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t affect me now; Gordo is gone, and Chaz died three decades ago. Seriously, not in this century. Whatever really did happen, the outcome was tragic for sure, but Mom needs to treat it like what it was: a rare exception, not a rule. Instead, he’s forever linked to the idea of gayness in her mind, the image she summons to determine the boundaries of who I can be.

“Chaz Wilson. Chaz Wilson. Chaz Wilson! I think you ought to care more about your own son’s rights!”

She crosses her arms. (To be clear, this is never a good sign.) “How ’bout I care about my son’s life? Which is my actual job?”

“Yeah, well, if your job is to be okay with my life counting for less than everyone else’s, you’re crushing it.”

I leave the room so fast, she has no choice but to let me have the last word.

If You Can’t Trust Your Boyfriend

If You Can’t Trust Your Boyfriend

My phone is starting to light up like fireworks. I don’t have to even swipe the first bubble to know that Bryce (it can only be Bryce) is telling people about how my prom coup backfired. Of course, that’s exactly what happened, but at least the kids who text are all on my side. There’s already talk of a protest and even a hashtag, #LETTHEMDANCE. I don’t want any of it: the embarrassment of failing publicly or the prospect of people boycotting an event I’ve been living for. Between a crown and a picket line, you know which I want to be seen in.

Nix texts to say to meet on the green instead of going to sixth period. I’m pretty sure you can’t improve over Nix as a best friend: without me saying it, they understand I can’t yet face a class full of kids who know I blew this. And they also know my schedule well enough to know that I have Kurunchabi for sixth, and any good sob story I drop on him later will get the absence excused.

It’s Cheng I see first, though. I kiss him right on the green (which technically is the same as being at school) because I want to and because I am done playing by their rules. I am immediately grounded by the warmth of his forehead against mine and the familiar scent of his shampoo. Feeling slightly less deranged, I launch into a litany of injustices: Mrs. Somboon-Fox is a hypocrite, my mom is holding me back, and neither are keeping up with the twenty-first century. He listens and nods and rubs my back. He doesn’t say much, which isn’t that unusual for him, but right this second it kind of bugs me. I need him to tell me I’m right.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”